


My Beloved Monster

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Blood and Gore, M/M, Monster of the Week, More tags to come!, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampires, because i dont want to spoil it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “Find one of your brothers. Or someone from another school. Write to Yen, if you have to.” Jaskier reached out across the table, and suddenly his hand was wrapped around Geralt’s. It was warm, even through the thick leather of Geralt’s glove. “Geralt,” he said, nearly pleading. “Don’t do this.”Geralt picks up a contract for what appears to be a nest of bruxae. Despite Jaskier pleading with him not to go - claiming it’s too dangerous - Geralt searches for the creatures that have been terrorising the city. But when he finds them, it becomes clear that something else has gotten to them first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 123





	My Beloved Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeddyLaCroix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyLaCroix/gifts).



> Greetings! This is a birthday (and, oof, very late Christmas gift) for my dear friend Teddy. Happy Birthday!
> 
> Please note that this chapter features blood and gore, and there will be canon-typical violence in the next chapters.

Geralt dropped the sun-bleached contract on the table in front of Jaskier, sitting down heavily on the bench with a sigh. Without saying anything, Jaskier pushed a full tankard of ale towards him, which Geralt took gratefully. He virtually saw off the pint in one, wiping the suds away from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That bad?” Said Jaskier, eyebrows raised. 

Geralt sniffed. “Take a look.” 

Jaskier reached for the contract and quickly scanned it, his eyes moving back and forth as he read. He paled. 

“This sounds like a vampire, Geralt.” 

Geralt nodded, and pulled back the bit of paper. 

“Did you talk to…” Jaskier twisted, peering at the name that signed the contract, “...Anslem?” 

“I did. It’s worse than this, though,” he said, folding the contract and tucking it into a pocket. 

“Worse _how?”_

“He claimed he didn’t want to cause more panic than necessary. The contract only tells half the story.” 

“Which half?” 

“He said there’d been three attacks. That’s incorrect. It’s more like six. And they’re not attacks.” 

“Then what—” 

“They’re deaths. Killings.” 

Jaskier hissed through his teeth. “Fuck.” 

“All out of the way. Down in the docks, the warehouses, a couple in the old houses near the harbour. Workers, sailors, merchants…” he shook his head. “It’s bad. Very bad.” 

“So, what is it? An alp? A bruxae?” 

“Bruxae, I think,” said Geralt, carefully. 

“One bruxae wouldn’t cause that much carnage.” 

“Exactly. I think it's a pack. Three or four, at least.” 

Jaskier froze, eye wide. “That’s… Bruxae never travel in groups. Are you sure?” 

“I need to take a look around,” Geralt said, “But… I’m fairly certain.” 

Jaskier shook his head. “Even _one_ bruxae is enough to put a witcher out of commission, Geralt, but _four_? Four of them _working together?_ That’s insane. You’ll get killed.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“I’m afraid I have to disagree. Bruxae are smart, and vicious, and they _will_ kill you. You can’t genuinely be considering taking this contract on alone?” 

“There’s no one else. If I do nothing, more people will die.” 

“Geralt, if you take this on, they’ll kill you. And more people will die _anyway_.” 

“Then what do you suggest I do?” 

“Find one of your brothers. Or someone from another school. Write to _Yen_ , if you have to.” He reached out across the table, and suddenly his hand was wrapped around Geralt’s. It was warm, even through the thick leather of Geralt’s glove. “Geralt,” he said, nearly pleading. “Don’t do this.” 

“I don’t have time to find Eskel or Lambert,” said Geralt, extracting his hand from Jaskier’s grip, “or anyone else for that matter. I’ve fought bruxae before. They’ve not killed me yet.” 

“Only because you took them on one at a time. If they’re moving in a pack then there’s something more going on here. Taking on _one_ invisible blood sucker is one thing, but four is nothing more than a death sentence. You may as well fling your swords into the harbour and hunt them naked for all the good your weapons and training will do.” 

Geralt didn’t have time for Jaskier’s anxiety. “How is it that you’re suddenly such a vampire expert?” 

Jaskier looked chagrined, for a moment, before his fearful expression returned. 

“I’ve got to do _something_ over winter or while you’re away, you know,” he said. “I fucking _read_ , Geralt. And I haven’t spent two decades traipsing around after you without picking some of this stuff up. Anyway,” he shrugged, taking a sip of wine, “vampires are interesting. I’d much rather read about _them_ than, I don’t know, nekkers and rotfiends.” He did a dramatic faux-shudder. “Disgusting.” 

“Look,” Geralt finished the pint, leaning back on the bench. “I can’t just do _nothing_. I can’t just leave. I’m going to look around the warehouses first, maybe the docks, and see what I can find.” 

“Geralt—” 

“You stay here. You’re right, they _are_ dangerous. I need you to stay behind for this one.” 

“But—” 

“I’m not hunting. I’m just…” he tapped a finger on the table. “...looking. Seeing if I can find anything that’ll point me in the right direction.” 

“And what if they find you first, Geralt. Then what?” 

He shrugged. “Then I’ll finish this contract a lot sooner than expected. Come on,” he stood, aware that Jaskier’s gaze was fixed on him. “I’ve got to prepare.” 

Jaskier stank of fear as they made their way up the stairs to their room, oddly silent as he trudged along behind Geralt. He didn’t speak as he helped Geralt slide on his armour, carefully tightening the buckles that Geralt struggled to reach, pulling glimmering vials of Swallow and Kiss and Black Blood from his satchel and wordlessly packing them into the little bag that Geralt wore on his hip during fights. 

It was just after sunset when Geralt was finally ready. The silence, which he was usually so fond of, was deafening. 

“Jaskier—” 

“Geralt—” 

They spoke at the same time. 

“Geralt, _please_ don’t do this.” 

Geralt sighed. “I’m not _doing_ anything. I’m just taking a look.” 

“If there _is_ a pack of those things out there…” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

Jaskier bit his lip, and the awful, tart smell of fear only grew. “Make sure you are.” 

* 

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon hours ago, and the little sliver of moon did nothing to illuminate the dark streets of the city. Geralt had already explored the warehouse district - empty, apart from rats - and even the abandoned houses near the edge of the harbour which had been half-crumbled into rubble anyway. There was nothing of note in either place - not even the lingering smell of blood, only dust and decay. 

Geralt’s footsteps echoed as he walked down towards the docks, the district oddly quiet. Usually such an industrial area would be bustling with life, even so late at night. Anslem must have started to warn the other workers of the area. That worked for Geralt: fewer people around meant less collateral damage if things went wrong. 

Not that he was expecting things _would_ go wrong, tonight. He wasn’t actively hunting - just looking for traces, looking for clues. Bruxae - if the creatures _were_ bruxae - had both a distinctive scent and a messy kill, making them easily identifiable. Even a week-old blood stain would be enough to go on. 

The dockside buildings were huge, ancient things made of creaking, half-rotten wood. They were the ideal place for a lesser vampire to hide. 

Or a pack of them. 

He heaved open the enormous double doors of the first building, and slid inside. Without the moon, it was pitch black, so he quickly downed a bottle of Cat and paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust in the gloom. 

It was a busy building, used for maintenance and storage and stocks. It was not, he noted, a good place for a fight - too much in the way, too many coils of ropes and chains to trip over, too many piles of boxes that would hamper his movements. If the creatures _were_ here, he would need to be careful. 

It took him a good hour to search through the building, carefully picking his way from room to room. This place, he suspected, was too busy for anything other than rats and cockroaches to hide: there were signs of life everywhere. Nothing stayed still in this place for long. 

Geralt was happy when he finally pushed his way back out onto the walkway beside the dock, the air here cool and fresh. He felt grimy - like even _existing_ in that building for too long had left him covered in dust and debris. He carried on southwards, keeping the water to his right, exploring. 

And then - a smell. Metallic and sharp and sudden, caught on a breeze. He turned on his heel, trying to follow it, trying to hone his senses towards it. He let his nose lead him, trying to identify the smell - earthy, nearly rotten, hot and tart. 

Blood. But - not, somehow. 

It was like a path lit up in front of him, like a rope wrapped around his middle tugging him forwards. He followed the scent down an alleyway, squeezing between the filthy brickwork of two towering buildings, towards a smaller storeroom, tucked around the back of a bigger boathouse. 

The scent _pulled_ at him, crowding him, making him feel nearly sick. Whatever it was - whatever these creatures were - they’d made a kill, and recently. 

He burst into the storeroom, his sword raised, one hand already positioned in a sign. 

It was empty - but the smell was like a wall, slamming into him. He gagged, coughing against his arm, eyes streaming. It was _everywhere_ \- choking him, smothering his other heightened senses. 

And then he saw it, finally, through his watering eyes. There was… a heap. An oddly-shaped, wet-looking pile in the very centre of the room. He crept forwards, although he suspected his reticence was unnecessary. Whatever it was was almost certainly dead. 

It was… 

Well. It was _definitely_ dead, that much he knew. And judging by the smell, it wasn’t human. The rest was virtually impossible to tell, the thing in the middle of the floor being so utterly decimated. It had been ripped to shreds. 

He knelt to better look, keeping one hand clamped over his mouth and nose. Up close, he could see more details - the remains of a limb, tangled clumps of long, dark hair. He rose, took a swift step back, and with an unpleasant popping noise stepped directly onto what he was fairly certain was an eyeball. 

He shuddered. 

Bruxae. _Two_ bruxae, judging by the amount of entrails. 

Something had gotten to them before he could. Something huge, and powerful. He peered around, listening, searching. He was alone: the only heartbeat his own, the only sound of breathing coming from his own choking lungs. Geralt stalked the edge of the room, peering around, looking for anything that could lead him to the creature. There was _nothing_. Not even any blood - the bruxae hadn’t even managed to _wound_ this creature, whatever it was. 

When he’d searched the room, he quickly blasted what remained of the bodies with Igni, burning them away until all that remained were scorch marks against the stone. Tomorrow, he would return to Anslem, and tell him that two of the creatures were dead. He would deign to tell him at who’s hand they had actually been killed: it wouldn’t do to make him panic any more than necessary. 

He was about to leave, when he noticed something on the floor. The blood from the bruxae had been dragged along the stone in a wide, dark mark that headed towards another low door at the opposite side of the room. He followed the trail - it soon petered out, blood splashed against the door - but the scent remained, visceral and strong. Geralt heaved open the wooden door - heavy even for him - out onto a walkway just above the harbour rushing below. There was another splatter of blood on the wood, the scent strongest here, then— 

Nothing. 

The thing had clearly thrown itself into the water, the trail lost. 

_Fuck_. 

Something had gotten there before him. Something _powerful_. Whatever had taken down the bruxae hadn’t been human, that much was clear: they looked like they’d been ripped messily apart, their bodies decimated. No weapon that Geralt knew of could have done that. That was the work of tooth and claw. 

Perhaps there was a nest, somewhere beneath the city. He hadn’t heard of lesser vampires gathering in such large organised groups before, but this _thing_ , whatever it was, could be the key. 

He was floundering, he knew. He was no closer to seeing off the contract than he had been when he set out. There was still at least one more bruxae somewhere in the city, he was sure, and now there was something huge and dangerous to contend with as well. Something powerful enough to kill a pair of vampires with apparent ease, yet stealthy enough to slink away. Not just stealthy: _clever_ too. Clever enough to realise that the only way to stop itself from being tracked was to escape into the water. 

Geralt knew the habits of hundreds of monsters and beasts off by heart, but he was struggling to place what this new creature could be. Perhaps it _was_ new: some mutation, some crawling, wriggling thing that had snuck into their world, falling through an errant portal. 

He trudged back towards the inn, picking through the sparse facts, trying to work it out. It was a puzzle - just another hunt - another job to solve. At least Jaskier would be pleased that he hadn’t been ripped apart by vampires, as he’d so clearly feared he would be. 

He paused. Jaskier had been _terrified_. The smell of Jaskier’s fear had been clinging to Geralt for a good five minutes after leaving the tavern, stuck in the whorls of his fingerprints where he’d helped Geralt into his armour, distracting him. He hadn’t seen him so nervous in _months_ \- probably longer. 

Jaskier was not known for his rational thinking, especially when he was scared. The last time Geralt had set off on a difficult contract - it had been a chort, ravaging a poor farming community - he’d told the trembling bard to stay in the _fucking_ village. But Geralt had found him, not even an hour later, creeping between the trees on the edge of the forest where the creature had made its nest. 

That hadn’t been the first time that Jaskier had blindly walked into danger, either. He was always _there_ , always getting in the way, always needing to be saved - even if he insisted he was fine. 

When Geralt was in _true_ danger, Jaskier would always appear. 

He started to walk a little faster. A nest of vampires was almost certainly enough to switch off whatever rational part of Jaskier’s brain stopped him following Geralt on hunts and send him careening after him, all loud footsteps and brightly coloured clothes. He was a walking buffet for a group of bloodthirsty vampires. 

A group of bloodthirsty vampires, and a— 

A _something_. 

Geralt had a vision of a pool of blood, a pile of viscera splashed across the floor across a heap of tattered, brightly coloured silk. 

When he made it to the inn, he was out of breath. He hadn’t even realised he’d been running. He shoved open the door, and despite the hunger aching at him he turned away from the tavern and headed up to their room, taking the steps two at a time. 

Jaskier was fine, he was sure. Even _he_ wasn’t foolish enough to follow Geralt on a hunt like this. 

Probably. 

As Geralt turned from the stairs into the corridor, he was suddenly struck with the smell of oranges - sweet and sticky. He wrinkled his nose, the smell strong enough for even a human to pick up on. It mingled with other scents - a little lavender, some sandalwood. It would have been almost pleasant, had it not been so overwhelming. 

It was coming from their room - their shared room. He pushed open the door, and was immediately struck with the stink of oils and perfumes. 

“Geralt! You’re back!” 

Jaskier was reclining in a copper tub, one ankle slung casually over the rim, a book in his hand. The smells were coming from the water that lapped against him, a faint oily sheen across the surface. It was on his skin, too, shimmering against his arms and trapped in the hair on his chest and stomach. 

Jaskier splashed in the water as he lowered his leg back below the surface and chucked his book onto the floor beside the bath. Geralt was about to chastise him for using so many fucking oils - to yell at him for the inevitable headache which was to follow - when he was struck with another smell, prickly and hot below the overwhelming aroma of Jaskier’s bath. 

Blood. 

It was too mingled with the other scents for him to properly identify it, too thoroughly mixed with the smell of oranges and lavender, but there was no doubting that iron tang, the taste of it in the back of his mouth. 

“Jaskier, what’s—” 

Jaskier cut him off before he could ask what was going on, talking fast and loud - too loud. 

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon! Sorry about the smell, I _know_ it’s too much, but I accidentally spilled the whole bottle in, and I was hoping you’d be gone for at least another few hours to give me a chance to properly get the smell out, you know? Let me finish up and I’ll crack some windows open, shall I?” 

He rose from the bath in a swift movement, water cascading down his naked body. Geralt hesitated for just a second before forcing himself to look away as Jaskier grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist, then pattered across to the grimy window, his feet making quiet slapping sounds against the wooden floor. 

The window creaked open, and while the air outside wasn’t exactly _clean_ , especially in the heart of the city, it was certainly a relief when a breeze wafted in, dispersing the smell of Jaskier’s oils a little. But that blood smell was still there, beneath it all, prickling at him. 

“Jaskier…” 

He turned, his face the picture of innocence. “Yes?” 

“What’s going on?” 

He frowned. “Nothing at all?” He curled it into a question - probing - his expression now polite concern. 

Geralt hesitated. “I can smell blood,” he said, finally. 

Jaskier’s eyes went wide. 

“Oh! Well, ah…” He stepped away from the window, towards Geralt, “there was… a bit of a to-do, I’m afraid.” Geralt raised his eyebrows, and Jaskier continued. “I thought to myself, no good sitting here worrying, so I went across to that pub across the road - much bigger than the one downstairs, you know - thought maybe I could play a set, earn a bit of cash for when you _inevitably_ returned half-dead and we’d need to pay a healer…” he was rambling, his fingers nervously fluttering, “and, _well_ , I was having a marvellous time when this very large man bumped right into me, and Geralt, you would _not_ believe my luck, but I fell straight into a barmaid carrying a tray of beer, which spilt all over me, _ruining_ my tunic...” 

Jaskier was pacing, now, madly gesturing with his free hand. 

“... so I came straight back here to get washed up because there’s nothing quite so bad as being covered in stale beer” —he paused, here, to finally breathe, and Geralt could only stare at him— “apart from being covered in monster guts, I suppose. _Anyway_. A total mess! And I didn’t even have a chance to play… _and_ my poor shirt, lost forever…” he sighed. “That was a lovely tunic. Cost a _fortune_.” 

Geralt blinked at him. His skin was flushed and his hair a mess around his head - but that just from the heat of the bath, Geralt was sure. 

“Right,” he said, slowly. Jaskier smiled, a little nervously. “And the blood?” 

Jaskier froze, the smile faltering. He took just a moment too long to respond. “One of the mugs shattered,” he said, finally. “Shoddy pottery, if you ask me. I got cut.” 

There was something else, now. Mingling with the oils and the blood - almost undetectable. Fear. Jaskier’s heartbeat had begun to quicken. 

“Rather, ah…” Jaskier swallowed, then turned to his bags, rummaging through them. “Rather eventful evening, all in all.” 

He let the towel drop unceremoniously to the floor and began to get dressed, tugging on an old pair of breeches before turning around, holding a tunic. His hands, Geralt noticed, were trembling a little. 

“How about… how about those bruxae, then?” He asked, tugging the tunic over his head. “Or was it—” 

“Dead.” 

“You killed them?” 

“Didn’t need to. They were dead when I got there. Two of them.” 

That - absurdly - seemed to cheer him. “Oh! Well, great.” 

“ _Great_?” 

“Well if those awful things are dead, Geralt, that means we can get out of here, hmm? You know, the seasons are turning and I’ve always heard that Toussaint is really quite lovely this time of—” 

“No.” 

Jaskier paused. “No?” 

Geralt strode across the room, tugging off his swords. He leant them against the wall and began to unpick his still-clean armour. Jaskier hurried over, ready to help, fiddling at the clasps on his shoulders. He still smelled of the bath oils - still smelled faintly of blood. 

“It wasn’t a human that killed them. It was something else.” 

Jaskier leaned around him, peering at him. “Something like…?” 

“I don’t know.” Geralt sighed, huffing air out of his nose. “I have no idea what it was. But to kill two lesser vampires and escape, apparently unharmed?” He shook his head as Jaskier peeled away the armour from his arm. “It’s dangerous.” 

Jaskier placed the armour onto the bed. “But it solved your bruxae problem, I suppose…” 

“And gave me a whole new problem.” 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning I’m going to find it. And kill it, if I have to.” 

Jaskier went still. “Geralt…” 

“No. It’s a _monster_ , Jaskier. A strong one. If I leave now…” he looked at Jaskier, who was watching him nervously. “It _will_ kill again. It’ll kill more than just a couple of vampires.” 

“You can’t…” 

“I have to. I’ll set out earlier tomorrow evening. It must have reached them before I did, so it might be crepuscular. I’m going to look around some more tomorrow, then I’ll set out at sunset to see if I can find it, whatever it is.” 

“Geralt, this sounds—” 

“I _have_ to. Besides, there were only two bodies. There’s at least one more bruxae in the city. I need to deal with that, at the very least.” 

Jaskier fell silent. He helped Geralt pull away the last of his armour quietly, only speaking when he needed him to move, to twist around, to shuffle out of his way. It was clear he was distressed: Jaskier was _Jaskier_ , and Geralt had learnt some time ago - with no small amount of shock - that he’d begun to value Geralt’s safety over that of whoever he’d been hired to protect. But Geralt couldn’t let this rest. If he left now, with the creature stalking the streets, any blood that was spilled from this point onwards would be on his hands. 

By the time he was free of the heavy leather armour, Geralt was truly starving. He grabbed his coin bag from the bed and shoved it into his pocket. 

“I’m going to get something to eat,” he said, slowly. “Do you want to come?” 

It was an olive branch, of sorts. Jaskier looked pale and nervous - eating would do him some good. Jaskier looked at him from his position on the other side of the room. There was that fear, again - his stil-rapid heartbeat. 

“I…” he looked down, rubbing his hands together. “I already ate. But thanks.” He nibbled at his lip. “I’ll get the bath water taken care of,” he said, slowly. “Get rid of the smell.” 

There was something he wasn’t saying. But Geralt knew better than to probe - especially if Jaskier was falling into this uncommon, stilted silence. He nodded, once, then left the room, making his way back downstairs. 

It was quiet in the tavern, and he was able to procure a meal quickly. Jaskier had had a point about the size of the tavern below the inn - it _was_ small, and the food provided was simple and plain. He ate quickly, accompanying it with a bitter-tasting ale. Usually he’d take an opportunity like this to grill the landlord about whatever creature it was stalking the city, but today he was hesitant: partly because the landlord kept shooting him wary, critical looks from the other side of the bar, and partly because he had no desire to cause any more panic than was necessary. 

Anslem had hired him to deal with a vampire infestation, not… whatever this was. He wouldn’t start spreading rumours of some new, even worse threat until he was sure of what the thing was. 

When he was finished, he placed a few coins on the bar - more than what the meal was worth, but better to try to win the landlord’s favour - then headed back upstairs. Their room was dark, when he opened the door, and Jaskier had already buried himself beneath the thin sheet on the bed. He’d been good to his word: the tub had gone, and the overwhelming scent of the bath oils had very nearly vanished. 

Geralt pulled off his boots, placing them next to his discarded weapons and armour, then his trousers, and shuffled into the bed next to Jaskier. The bed wasn’t wide, and where they were pressed together, Geralt could feel how warm he was. He must have gotten into bed as soon as he’d gotten the bath removed. 

Jaskier shuffled beside him, and as he moved, that faint blood smell intensified - just for a second. And then a warm, lazy arm snaked its way around Geralt’s middle, pushing all thoughts of blood and vampires and monsters thoroughly away as his heart skipped, just once. 

Jaskier pressed against his back, tugging him closer. Geralt couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake, his breathing rhythmic but his heart stuttering. Perhaps he was having a nightmare. He should pull away, he knew: gently reach down and move Jaskier’s arm, forcing him to release him. 

But something stopped him. 

Geralt could feel the soft pressure of Jaskier’s face against his back where he leant his head between his shoulder blades, the twitch of his feet beside Geralt’s ankles, threatening to slide between them. He didn’t _want_ to move him - didn’t want to force him to the edge of the bed as he had done so many times before, desperate to put as much space as he could between himself and… 

And what _was_ it? What _was_ that bubbling thing that made him keep Jaskier at arm’s length, that made him feel like he needed to push him away? 

After the trudge through the city - being forced to examine the remains of the creatures he’d been sent to kill - the touch was comforting. He could let himself lean into it, just this once - just for tonight. 

He was relaxing into the bed, letting his eyes drift shut, when there was a voice, muffled against his back. 

“Please don’t get eaten by a vampire.” 

Geralt reached up, and placed his arm over Jaskier’s, trapping it against his body. 

“I’ll try not to.” 


End file.
